No Surrender
by Mad Bertha
Summary: Birth of Walter Kovacs/Rorschach: Sylvia Kovacs doesn't exactly bond with Walter. Might be triggery, especially for postnatal depression-medical nastiness in the 40s, graphic prenatal and labour description.


**WARNINGS: MIGHT BE TRIGGERY especially for postnatal depression sufferers: medical nastiness, graphic prenatal and pre-birth description**

Betas: radishface and silvergrin

Summary: Birth of Walter Kovacs/Rorschach: Sylvia Kovacs doesn't exactly bond with Walter. Graphic novel knowledge may help but not absolutely necessary.

* * *

She didn't ask for this.

She didn't ask for the feeling like her insides want to ooze out of her bottom, the blood and liquids that have to be soaked up by cloth, the constant feeling of soreness and dampness. She finds she can get passably comfortable by squatting on her bed on top of a pile of towels. But there is no one around, no Charlie, no rough arms to pull her up and get her ass into a cab and into hospital. The apartment they'd shared is on the third floor, and there's no elevator.

Her bag is not packed. The last month was spent pretending this wasn't going to happen, that, by some miracle, she'd be back to her slim, young self.

(How old she feels now, how worn and ugly, body hanging out everywhere, tits to belly button, okay, maybe not but it feels that way. Blue-green veins like faint vines radiating around her breasts.)

In the bag go her dresses. The pyjamas Charlie gave her, and a nice skirt suit for after. Benzedrine – she started taking them with Charlie, a habit he acquired during the war. She takes two pills to help with the birth. Toothbrush, what else, _oh god_...

All the while the pains are getting worse. There's no gush – she always thought the waters would flood whatever she was sitting on. Instead, there's a slow ooze of bloody fluid and an ache that is only barely tolerable if she sort of forgets that that it'll turn into something sharper.

She finishes the whiskey that's left in the bottle and makes her way out and down the stairs. It takes a while.

* * *

The cab ride was agony and getting through the paperwork takes an eternity. A nurse fills out the form with her, and, of course, when it comes to the father, the nurse pauses and looks up briefly when Sylvia doesn't give her his last name. She moves quickly onwards to ask her who to contact in the event of an emergency and Sylvia gives a short laugh and shakes her head. The rest of it is shit about allergies, medication taken, known health conditions. They don't need to know about the uppers or the whiskey chasers. Hardly enough to do any harm. Though, judging from the looks the nurse is giving her, perhaps she's letting it show too much, this time.

She's put in a shared ward to wait for the time to go into the birthing room. There's a moaner in the room that that's irritating the hell out of her. But what really gets her is that another nurse comes in after half an hour and _asks her the same questions all over again_, clipboard perched on her knees. She's just about ready to climb the wall, if only her legs would allow.

There are long periods of nothing, just the rattle and slide of carts going down the corridor outside, the echoing steps of staff walking up and down and talking to patients, and, of course, the complaints of her oh-so-stoic neighbour.

* * *

The contractions feel like she's being pulled apart. She holds the bed frame, the cold hardness not offering much relief, but at this point she'll take anything. Not that it helps.

In a lull between contractions, a conversation drifts into her consciousness from outside:

"Divorced?"

(_Yes_, she thinks.)

"Don't think so."

A question too soft to hear. She has no doubt the subject is herself. She guesses at what they're saying.

"Yes. Another one of _them_. And..." She can't catch the rest of the sentence.

Whispers, and then louder: "Pity the kids, is all I can say." The sound of footsteps fading.

She doesn't want to, but when the pain comes back, several times worse, she starts yelling.

* * *

The doctor, a sleepy and taciturn man, comes in to check if she's dilated enough. This involves him shoving his hand into her and it fucking hurts, it makes her twist her body, to his disgust – "Stay still!" he says, sharply. She can't – it feels like he's taken a cleaver to her down there.

"Three inches," he says to the nurse, and they both look resigned.

She's losing track of the time. A while later, they check again, and, although there's a bit of progress, she still isn't dilated enough. It damn well feels like she's ready. This time, the doctor moves his hand around and her insides explode. Whatever he is doing in there, it's like he's carving her out with a scalpel and she cries out. When he finishes, he cleans himself off and tells the nurse, "Okay, shouldn't be too long now," before he leaves.

"What... the hell... just happened there?" she grates out, as a gush of fluid leaves her and drenches the folded cloth underneath.

"Honey, he's just helped you along, that's all," says the nurse, briskly cleaning her up. "Cleared your membranes out of the way." Sylvia wonders just how much more is in store for her that they aren't telling.

(That they didn't ask her first never occurs to her.)

The pain accompanying each contraction has multiplied a hundred fold, a knife-edge sharpness that makes her wonder if she'll survive the birth itself. She curses the doctor in her head. It was nothing like this before he did whatever he did to her. It's a nightmare, but there's no way to escape by waking up. There's no running away.

* * *

She doesn't know what they're giving her.

(An injection of morphine and scopolamine to take the edge off the pain, a mercy for women to not remember the unpleasant business of birth.)

They strap down her limbs, putting her feet in stirrups; they tell her it's for her own good.

There's white light burning into her eyes from above, and the hardness of steel everywhere.

(Her senses dulled by the drugs, her consciousness fading into a twilight state.)

Faces pull in and out of range. People speak, but she barely hears them.

Against her will, she thinks of Charlie, the bastard that left her with this. Holding the baby, she laughs, not caring what they think. She wonders if this baby is ever coming and why she ever thought she wanted this.

(She's too out of it to push, no matter – they pull the baby out with forceps.)

She will not remember anything of the birth, only moments of struggling, not knowing why she's there, her legs and arms thrashing against her bonds.

She will find skin rubbed off her ankles and arms.

* * *

They show the baby, swaddled in faded cotton. She's not sure how she feels about Charlie's red hair and pale complexion on it – on _him_ – it makes him look ill and deformed. It doesn't help that he's got this white stuff covering parts of his skin and indentations on his head from the forceps. He stares at her, with those deep blue eyes they tell her all babies have when newborn, and she feels judged. She's fallen short. Found wanting.

Sylvia tries to dredge up the appropriate feelings of nurturing, of love, when she gazes upon him. It must be the drugs, because she really _wanted_ him, didn't she? That's what she said whenever anyone suggested getting rid of him. But there's no answering warmth within her when she looks at his tiny, scrunched up face (_ugly_, she tries not to think).

There's fear instead.

They take him away again. She won't be able to hold him for a couple of days, they tell her, to avoid infection.

There are stitches _down there_ – they cut her to widen the passage. She avoids sitting and delays going to the bathroom as much as possible, because even the slow waddle up the corridor is agony. She's allowed to see the baby, but not to touch it.

Part of her wants to see this thing that was inside her for so long, that she carried through the best days with Charlie, and after he was gone.

Another part of her wants to grab her things as soon as she's able and disappear.

* * *

The night nurse is a right fucking bitch, she tells Sylvia there must have been a mistake in the prescription, the painkillers are much too strong for her and makes her wait until the doctor comes in, a good three hours of clutching the pillow, the sheets, but nothing holds off the pain.

There are stretch marks – they are dark, purple and it looks like a tiger has clawed her stomach. Figures that she would have a permanent reminder of the baby's stay in her body.

* * *

A visitor comes, her only one.

Her lone visitor is a social worker, a middle-aged woman with a gentle, soothing manner. At first, Sylvia doesn't know why she's there but then she starts pressing pamphlets into Sylvia's hands and talking to her about how there are many unfortunate couples out there who want children, especially white children, but can't have them. How a good home can be found for her boy, a home, she says, with parents with the means to raise him.

When Sylvia doesn't answer but stares at her, her gentleness slides off as she says, "Let's be honest now, dear. The father is gone and you don't have a job. You know you being unmarried is going to reduce your eligibility for assistance, right?"

Sylvia nods, biting her lip.

"Plenty of girls have made this mistake. But, dear, you don't have to suffer for it. Your child doesn't have to suffer for it. We'll make sure he goes to a nice couple. He can have a normal life, a dad that's working, and a mother that will be able to look after him."

Sylvia really thinks about this. It's true, what she's saying. If she manages to find work, and that alone will be tough, who will look after the baby? She's still not sure, though, and says so.

"Just remember, dear, if you love him, this is the best thing to do for him." The social worker leaves the pamphlets with her, and tells Sylvia that all she has to do is tell a nurse, and she will come back to do the paperwork. So, just in case, she doesn't name the boy, although she's got the name in her head.

* * *

Her boobs have been filling up through the day. Tonight, though, she can't sleep. They hurt terribly; they are so bloated and rock hard. Much better than breastmilk, they're feeding the baby with specially-designed formula. As much as she's still relieved that she doesn't have to breastfeed, she wonders if it'll help to hold him close and feed him. At least it might relieve the pressure.

They give her cold cabbage leaves and teach her to express her milk. In time, she's told, the breasts will stop making milk and they'll return to normal again.

* * *

It's the day she gets to hold the baby and she wakes up with wet cheeks and dampness on the pillow. Probably because of some nightmare, some bad dream that's fading with daylight. She should be feeling happy, should be looking forward to his arrival in her arms, to doing all the things mothers do with children.

But no. It's all too too hard, and going to get harder. Fuck fuck _fuck_ Charlie and Peter and all the rest of them. The paperwork for adoption is in the bedside drawer, and she's tempted to sign it all away. Better now, while she's not sure if she can love the child, then later, as the woman said. What right has she, to impose her fucked up life on the baby, to offer only herself, when he may have something, well, _normal_ –

A nurse comes in, one that she hasn't seen before. Sylvia turns away quickly and makes like she's rubbing sleep out of her eyes. The nurse, however, is apparently too experienced to be fooled. She clicks her tongue and comes to stoop by her side.

"Hey..." she says, and fetches some tissues. And naturally, softly, she puts an arm around her shoulders and pats her on the back. Sylvia's first instinct is to pull away – hers was not a family that touched much, and she's not used to this – but, god, it does feel good, it's exactly what she needs. She can't help but to lean in further. Her sobs burst out against the nurse's chest and she feels guilty for wetting the stiff cotton of her uniform. _Janet Reed_, she reads off the name badge.

"_Shhh_... it's okay, it's the baby blues," she tells her. "Most girls get it a couple of days or so after the birth, you know. It's the hormones kicking you in the behind."

"I don't think I can... _do_ this," Sylvia wails.

"Sure you can. You think you're the first one to feel this way?"

"There's no one to help..."

"Now, are you sure about that? How about your mother?" The nurse doesn't ask about Charlie; it's clear enough that bird has flown the coop.

"They don't want to know me – didn't want me to marry my husband."

"Have you called them recently?"

Sylvia pauses in thought. She's right. She hasn't tried since before divorcing Peter. Dad's probably going to be stubborn but Mom... Mom might want to see her.

Janet appears to read off the answer to her question from the silence saying, "Well, I think, for the sake of your little boy, you should give it a go, eh? You know most grandmas, they can't say no to a little baby."

She whispers to her, "And I'm not married. Not any longer."

Janet whispers back, "Neither was my mother. Grandma pretended I was hers, raised me as my mother's _sister_."

They both laugh. She can't recall the last time she laughed like this.

"Now, wanna to hold the baby?" The nurse smiles. "He's had a bath, and he's pretty mellow now."

* * *

The nurse is showing her how to fold the cloth for his nappy.

Walter stares at her face as if to memorize it, and perhaps that is what he is doing. He's looking a bit healthier now that the vermix has been completely washed off. She's still not feeling that immensity of joy and happiness she reckons she should, but, yes, he's hers, all hers, and she wraps herself in that thought. Something she's never had before. And perhaps Mum will come around, and show her the ropes, look after him while she works. If not that, maybe George might lend her some cash. Somehow, she'll make it work.

* * *

The suit is too small – the weight didn't just magically drop away after the birth – but, she thinks, she looks decent. She's got Walter along one arm, swaddled against the slight chill of early spring. In her other arm, her bag.

She's ready to go home.


End file.
